


Time... a human concept

by Grumpymagizooligist



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-11
Updated: 2019-06-21
Packaged: 2020-05-01 17:40:50
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,803
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19182625
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Grumpymagizooligist/pseuds/Grumpymagizooligist
Summary: Time was invented by humans.Language was invented by humans.Algebra was invented by Gabriel.The bastard.Not that Angels ( or fallen ones for that matter ) are affected by such things...Much.Ok a little, but it's been a long 6000 years.





	1. Chapter 1

__

Six thousand years.

71999.92 months (The .92 was important. In much the same way as being 4 years and 11 months old is to an almost five years old. )

2190000 days. 

Not that he was keeping track.

Even so...

He tried to calculate the hours… but it involved algebra. 

Anything that used letters to count was obviously the work of the most sadistic of minds. He wondered how long it had taken Gabriel to come up with it. 

Stupid really when you thought about... it time.

Totally human construct, of course, Angels didn’t count the time the same way as the humans. 

The fallen ones didn’t even count.

He wished he could remember what it was like to count time, maybe part of him could. 

The same part of him that knew that soon it would be 2190001 days since he had last been good at his job on purpose. 

Still, could have been worse. 

At least he didn't owe upstairs a flaming sword.

Nothing bad had happened since he had come sauntering back down from heaven having removed that smug look off the holy mathematicians face. He had always hated Gabriel, the smug bastard. That he remembered at least. 

He would have hit the prissy pratt with the hellfire from the execution flames if it wouldn’t have given the game away.

His Angel didn’t deserve to be treated like that, he might have been a bit of a bastard, but he was his bastard. 

Only he wasn’t.

Not enough to fall.

He would balance the bastard… just to keep him just as angelic as he had always been.

Even if it was 3.1536e+11 minutes since he tempted humans to the original sin… at least his Angel had made it worth the while.

Oh bugger 

Algebra

Gabriel the bastard.

The clock above the ridiculously impractical fireplace clicked towards midnight.

A new day snaked its way forward.

__  
  
  
  
  
  


It wasn’t old fashioned, it was vintage. 

He hated that word, vintage.

Of all the words invented to describe his book shop, vintage was not one that he relished hearing on the lips of the humans that dared to touch his beloved books. 

To utter the words was to suddenly find you forgot you had that very urgent doctors appointment for that strange thing you found when you were lying in the bath. 

It was best to get that checked out after all.

It had been several weeks since the end of the world … well … wasn’t.

It had been Five Hundred and four hours since this vintage Angel, A Demon an eleven-year-old antichrist (Eleven and almost one month!) and his dog had frozen time and decided that paternal birthright was more of a choice than an actual destiny. Not that he was keeping count of that sort of thing. 

But he was. 

He wasn’t old or Vintage, he didn’t age after all. But he was counting the passing of time in a very human way. 

Not that he was counting.

But he was.

It had been 21 days since the world hadn’t ended.

It had been 21 since they had decided that they were more us than them.

All the same, how long would it take for ‘us’ to get the capital U that it so rightly deserved. 

It had been a long time since that first thunderstorm.

It had been a long time since he had thought of how long ago it was.

It had been longer again since he had contemplated his oldest dearest friend huddled under his outstretched wing. 

_ frændi,frijōjand,frijonds,Feond… vriendschap...freondscipe…  _

Friend. Such a funny old word. 

It’s ever-changing meaning spanning from love to hate, through all the other feelings with just the change of one letter, an accent or a natural structure change over time. Constantly evolving and never quite one thing, both good and bad at the same time.

Time.

Such a human thing.

31680 minutes since the end of the word wasn’t, not that he was counting. 

But he was.

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	2. Chapter 2

Aziraphale paced the stacks of the bookshop, he had already reorganised every book. More than once. 

The books had been stacked and categorized by age, that had been difficult with some of the more questionable acquisitions. No print date and he wasn’t always sure when the humans had started using animal skin over their own, so it made some of his more exclusive collections harder to categorise. When he had finished he found himself frustrated, so after pouring himself a fresh glass of wine he set about trying to find a better way to organise his collection.

 

Alphabetical: that was no good, too many different alphabets for a start and do you count dead languages? Wasn’t it time Latin made a comeback, it had always sounded so sweet listening to Crowley roll his tongue around the vowels… 

 

Author: that had seemed like a good idea until the moral quandary set in, was it really a Shakespeare or was it a Marlow… Crowley to this day says he had a hand in that conundrum… 

 

Every time he thought he had a system in place it jostled back around to the thing it was supposed to distract him from …

 

All in all, Aziraphale reorganised his collection seventeen times, ranging from the sublime to the ridiculous. 

He wasn’t sure what it was he was trying to achieve, but he wasn’t managing it.

In the grand scheme of things, seven days was nothing, at least it was nothing if you don’t count the creation of human existence*. Nothing of interest in seven days.

Only it now took it to a whole month since the last time he had spoken to the blasted demon, not that he was counting.  

 

*he did, but he understood the importance of having a day of rest so he tried not to linger on it too much.

 

What was wrong with him, he had gone years without speaking to Crowley in the past, decades even, but now… it had been twenty-eight days since they had swapped back. 

Twenty-eight days since they had dined at the Ritz, and oh how he missed him.

_ “Just us now, Angel.”  _

_ “Wasn’t it always?” _

_ “We could go anywhere we wanted to you know? Do anything we wanted to do!” _

_ “World is our oyster? Isn’t that what they used to say?” _

_ “Wouldn’t know Angel, food was always your temptation, not mine…” _

The book shop was starting to actually smell like a book shop. 

No mild sulphur undertones (Typical London sewer smell just wasn’t the same brand as Crowley) no upmarket aftershave that cost a small country to buy. It was just books, boring old books and all the books in the world were nothing without someone to gently tease about his hoarding habits. 

Aziraphale slumped back on the stack of magazines and comics* if the rest of everything in existence was just him and his books it wasn’t going to be much of an existence, he shook his head grabbed his umbrella, just in case, and headed out the door.

 

*One of Adam’s additions, he had thought about recycling them but had discovered he quite liked the adventures of Dennis the Menice ( reminded him of a certain demon he was rather fond of ) and he had sworn to himself that once he finally mastered this knitting fiasco he was going to knit said demon a rather fetching black and red jumper.

  
  


*-*-*-*-*

  
  


The spot where the Holy water had ‘not’ stained bothered him more than he would like to admit. The first night he had lain on the floor staring at the ‘not’ stain. The bloody Angel was right, you could miracle it away but you knew it was still there. Taunting. 

The second night after a trip to the Tesco express across the road Crowley returned with supplies. 

Epsom salts, baking powder, scouring pads and enough flash to clean an Olympic swimming pool. The bottle of wine and the pink marigolds were not essential but he was determined he was going to do the thing right.

The floor shone. You could almost see your own face in it, but still, the ‘non’ stain stared back.

Replacing the fancy flooring tiles did nothing. The stain remained a ghost of its former self, letching at him from below mahogany laminate. 

The Plants were taking pity on him, Crowley could feel them turning towards him as he sat hunched against the doorframe staring at the spot that just wouldn’t come out had taken up residence. 

“Don’t think I won’t throw you in the chipper.” he half threatened a Caladium as it twisted its large heart-shaped leaves towards him in comfort. Reaching out to stroke the tips of the white hearted plant, he noticed that the midnight black variant in the pot next door had started to migrate its leaves into the foliage of the white plant, splayed out alongside each other mixing under the dull light of the overhead heat lamp. 

_ “I remember this one … Angel wing! Didn’t they used to grow up against my gate?”  _

_ “It’s called Caladium, not bloody Angel   Angel… why would I have something called Angel wings in my apartment? Not exactly good on the resume is it ?” _

_ “Well, I like them.” _

Crowley traced a finger along the mixed leaves picking up the mister and giving them extra sprits.

“Don’t you two start getting ideas just because the Angel told you that you looked good together, it won’t save you from the bin.” The plants didn’t shake, in fact, Crowley was under the distinct impression that if they had eyes they would have just rolled out of existence into the back of the sockets in exasperation. Bloody Angel giving his plants ideas. Even Aziraphale had been right on both counts.

Crowley scooped up both pots. Making sure to glare at the other plants as he left he stalked down the hall.

The rug had helped. The white ruffles of fabric stood out stark in contrast with the rest of the flooring looking like a fluffy white cloud in a rainstorm, but Crowley was becoming rather attached to the thing, it made him think of clouds and days in the park, the smell of books…

Oh, bugger.

He cursed himself for promoting the inventing the internet, he cursed himself more for the invention of the one click to buy function on Amazon. Dangerous when sober, worse when at the bottom of a case of bad wine from the budget supermarket across the road.

With nothing but a quick thought, the thing went the same way as the plants the day before, leaving the stain to yet again taunt him.

 

The buzzer made him jump.

 

Crowley glared at the small silver thing willing its untimely demise. 

 

“What do you want?” he growled in its general direction.

 

“Crowley? Is that you dear?” 

  
  
  
  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> It's been an age since I wrote any fics on Terry's characters.  
> But oh how I've missed me boys


End file.
